


Nightmare

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Lots of potential triggers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, You've been warned, it's quite dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you love me? I imagine it's just awful. Is it awful? It must be awful."<br/>Sebastian is the immoveable object and Jim is the unstoppable force; they cannot exist together, and yet here they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Found the start of this in my writing folder. Not entirely sure what it was originally meant to be. Some kind of character study, perhaps? Decided to turn it into something, anyway. Bit different from the usual stuff. Bit depressing. This is why I stick to AUs.

Everything is swirling. Shapes and shadows twisting and turning together. The background is television static, both noise and vision. Something is alive beneath his skin. He can feel it, quivering and creeping, skittering along his veins and arteries and skipping over his nerve endings. His breathing is rattling with the effort it is taking to keep it quiet. Each exhale is a sigh and the duvet has him trapped, is holding him down and preventing him from thrashing and flailing like he so wants to. His nails ache with the desire to be tearing lines into his skin. He is aware of the dots of light that come through the crack in the curtains, of the way the sheets scrape against his bare, sensitive skin and so painfully, painfully aware that he is the only one breathing.

His vision blurs momentarily and the shapes descend.

He swallows, blinks, and they have backed off again. There's an ache in the back of his throat. With sluggish, pained movements he unwraps himself from his confines. This is all he can manage and for ten minutes he is paralysed from the effort. There is a packet of tablets on the bedside table, the plastic strips falling from its open mouth as if it were vomiting them out. Each one is empty. His hand collides with the box and knocks it to the ground. There is a gun down the back of the mattress and his fingers find it, caress across its cold surface lovingly.

Time is not happening how it should. At first it is too fast, impossibly fast, and he can feel it slide by in a rush. Then it slows back down. He knows without checking his phone that time is going slow now, because when he moves he can feel the pressure of it, like attempting to navigate his limbs through water. The gun comes up from behind the mattress and forward to rest in his lap. He traces the shape with his fingers. He turns it over with his hands, holds it aimed towards his face and kisses the barrel.

Trying to push the duvet aside through the thickness of time in the air is a challenge. Bare feet touch the wooden floor and the gun falls to beside the tablet box. He moves from the bed to the hall. He is going to get a drink to help ease his throat. That is his plan. By the time he reaches the living room, he is distracted by the shadows. Time is moving fast again. He is feeling nauseous. He doesn't remember falling, but when he hears the front door he is curled on the ground.

The footsteps are familiar. They pause once they are inside. The key jingling as it is removed from the door. The door clicking shut. The sound of a bag being dropped, followed by boots being removed and set beside it. Steps confidently making their way through the dim light. They're getting closer, closer, and they almost move away again before there's a sudden halt.

“Jim?”

How is he being seen? He doesn't exist. How can anyone speak his name when he doesn't exist?

“Jim, are you alright?”

No. He is not alright. He is all wrong. He isn't anything at all, he isn't here, he isn't real. Nothing is real here. It can't possibly be. Nothing makes sense and he just has to wait until he wakes up, until he dies, until something happens to explain it all.

The footsteps start up again, but instead of moving away they come right over to him.

“Jim?”

He doesn't respond. He will not respond. He can not respond. His silence is met with a quiet but tired sigh before the ground is sliding away from beneath him and all he can do is lean into the voice because there is nothing else, except for the shadows that are still watching, still waiting.

“Let's get you to bed.”

Is that the voice or is it the creatures? Or could it be the voice of the creatures? No. It doesn't make his insides rattle in the uncomfortable way everything else does, and therefore it can't be anything bad. It can't. Can it?

He doesn't have the energy to debate, much less to struggle. He gives in and soon they are in bed, soon the voice is wrapped around him and soon everything fades.

*

Jim is more than anything that can be put into words. He is his own twisted force of nature inside a human body, but he is all the more dangerous because of it. Unlike the hurricanes or forests fires that rage without control, Jim's chaos is all precision, careful planning and cruel desire. Even his impulses come completely crafted by the time they have crossed his sharp mind. There is creation within destruction and Jim is the creator of worlds, new and corrupted worlds existing within his own, and he controls them all with a delicate but firm hand. He is a god and he is a beast, he is a man and he is a king, he is whatever he chooses to be, and simultaneously he is nothing more than a rumour, a whisper, a shiver of fear down the spines of even the most wicked.

He is Moriarty and he has sunk his claws deeper into the world of organised crime than anyone else has ever dared to dream, let alone try. But brilliance comes with a price, and the price Jim pays is the betrayal of his own mind.

It is too much for him sometimes; it is noise, so much noise, flashes of light and image and sound that go too fast for him to grasp. It is claws dragging along the inside of his skull, pressure pushing outwards, seeking release. It is seeping darkness and poison into his veins and surging pain and emptiness through his body, and he is not sure which he prefers.

Jim is more than anything that can be put into words, but he is still limited to his human form, and for that; he suffers.

*

Jim's hands shake. His fingers are trembling, the blade unsteady between them, but held firm all the same. His lines are sharp and smooth despite the way his limbs can't seem to stay still, despite the way his body refuses to obey his command, continues to shake and shake and shake. His lines are precise, and the blood bubbles to the surface in neat rows, little beads of it all lined up like soldiers.

Sebastian has emptied the flat of his tablets. Sebastian has disposed of his syringes. Sebastian has cleared out the medicine cabinet, the third drawer in Jim's office, the secret stash beneath the bed. Sebastian has left Jim to find another high to quiet the mess of noise and the barbed tangle of aching darkness in his mind.

Jim exhales a breath that is as shaky as his hands. He draws another line. Lets the mess bleed out. Lets the light in. His next breath comes as a moan, and his head rolls back against the wall. The sharp sting of it grounds him momentarily, but his head is a balloon, is floating up, away, and nothing feels real, nothing is real except the noise that is eating him away.

When Sebastian finds him, there is blood on the carpet, and his thighs are littered with red lines. Jim has smudged the blood, knocked all the soldiers down like dominoes; the hairs on his legs cling together with it.

“Christ, Jim.”

Jim squints up at him. His eyelids are too heavy to open any more than that. They are avalanches, crashing down over his eyes. He lets them drop, let's the laughter boil up from his chest and exit his mouth like steam. He is drained now, his insides ache with exhaustion; but it is warm and quiet, and Sebastian's presence makes everything still. Makes everything stop.

Jim can hear his anger. He does not need the words to understand it. Sebastian's tone is sharp, is prodding in the gaps of his fragile bones, is making his body ache with discomfort. Jim frowns, bats at his chest when he is lifted, whines in the back of his throat like a child until the anger evaporates, and he is just left with the soft blanket of Sebastian's silence wrapped around him.

*

“It would be so easy.”

They are in New York. Presidential Suite of the St Regis Hotel. Jim is far beyond the days of staying in rooms. Sebastian has seen his share of dodgy hotels, but when Jim travels with him, it is the best of the best. They are on one of the large balconies, Jim sitting on the edge, the city beneath his feet.

He leans forward.

“I wonder what falling would feel like.”

He glances back over his shoulder, tosses Sebastian a smile that is as dark as his eyes, as dark as the poison inside of him. Sebastian is still, but his eyes are sharp, alert, watching him closely. Jim likes that expression, likes it when he is the focus of Sebastian's attention.

He pushes forward. Sebastian shifts half an inch towards him. They both still again.

“Jim.”

His voice is calm, steady, controlled; but Jim can detect the quiet, pleading note of desperation within it.

“It would be so exhilarating. Whooooosh. Then splat. Dead before you even realise. I bet you'd still be feeling the high. The adrenaline.”

Jim's hands are between his thighs. Between the space of his knees is Fifth Avenue, far beneath him. Far enough for his bones to crack and splinter when he makes contact with the pavement. Far enough for the impact to send his blood squirting like berry juice.

He looks at Sebastian for a long, long moment. Examines the lines of tension in his body; ready to pounce, ready to spring in to action at the smallest hint of warning. There are lines around his eyes, tired, troubled lines. He is too still to be natural, staring back at Jim as if caught in the few quiet seconds after pulling the pin from a grenade; waiting for the explosion.

Jim laughs and lets himself fall, backwards; on to the balcony. Sebastian catches him before he hits the ground.

*

Sebastian Moran is standing right in the eye of the storm, staring into the face of it; fearless and unflinching. He is stone cold and unmoving, hiding tremors beneath his skin. He is the immoveable object and Jim is the unstoppable force; they cannot exist together, and yet here they are. Sebastian is the mountain in the midst of the hurricane, watching as the world around him is torn to shreds while he somehow survives. He is the Earth beneath the volcanic eruption; charred and damaged, but still intact.

Sebastian Moran is in the center of Moriarty's chaos and it is going to be the death of him.

*

“You won't always be able to save me.”

Jim twirls a knife between his fingers. He glances at Sebastian from beneath dark lashes. The knife stills, and Jim licks a line up along the length of it, tastes the sweetness of peppers.

“Can you please not lick that until I'm finished with it.”

“Some day you'll be too late. You won't get there in time, and you'll have to watch as I die.”

“Pass me those mushrooms.”

“Perhaps I'll even let you hold me. Wouldn't that be tragically romantic? To have me die in your arms? I'm not very fond of the idea, but I know you like to indulge in sentiment now and again.”

Sebastian sighs, moving around Jim to retrieve the mushrooms himself, before adding them to the pot. Jim watches him, keeping his mouth a thin line of displeasure, not letting it slip into a pout. He doesn't like to be ignored. With one quick, determined movement, he slams the knife down into the chopping board.

“That's my good chopping knife,” says Sebastian.

“Oh, dear.” Jim smiles sweetly. He steps closer, flutters those pretty lashes at Sebastian. “Maybe I'll use it to slice open my veins. There would be something poetic in that, don't you think?”

“Jim.”

“Sebastian.”

“Can we not talk about this while I'm making dinner.”

“You don't want to discuss it because you know I'm right.”

Sebastian lets out a long sigh. It is a defeated noise, like a tyre deflating. His body sags slightly, as though his chest is caving in on itself. Jim's face lights up.

“Will you be awful sad, when I die? Disappointed?”

“It's my job to keep you safe.”

“Yes, but you can't do that all the time. You can't keep me safe from myself. Not for ever.”

“If you really wanted to die, Jim, you wouldn't do it when you know I'm coming back. Wouldn't text me. Wouldn't-”

Sebastian cuts off, realising his mistake.

*

It's over a month before he leaves Jim's side for anything more than standard hits, and even then, he checks in via text on the hour.

It's almost three months before Jim does it; just to prove Sebastian wrong, just to prove he can; just to prove a point, even if neither of them are sure what that point is.

He spends a night shaking, crying, and vomiting, and when his phone has totted up eighteen messages and seven missed calls, his medics land at the door. Jim is too weak to argue as they wrap him up and cart him off to one of his clinics. His stomach is pumped, his wounds tended, and he's hooked up to a series of IV drips.

Sebastian gets the next flight home. Dawn is just beginning to bleed into the sky by the time he reaches Jim. He says nothing; sits in angry silence by his bed side until Jim wakes and holds out one pale, weak hand towards him. He can see the anger melt from Sebastian like butter on toast. Calloused fingers stroke over his own, and he falls asleep with the weight of Sebastian's palm anchoring him to this world; to another day of breathing.

*

“Sebastian.”

There room is dark. Jim cannot see Sebastian, but he can feel him by his side, can feel the sturdy heat of him, the solidness. His body is still aching from the sweetest abuse, from being pressed into the mattress, gripped hard enough to bruise; from giving up control of his body and having all the mess forced from it until all he knows is Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian.

“Sebastian.”

“Mmpf?”

Sebastian shifts. Jim feels the bed move with him. An arm slithers across the pillow with familiar precision, burrows its way beneath Jim's neck, coils around his shoulders until he is captured in Sebastian's embrace. He allows himself to roll into the movement, until he is settled against Sebastian's chest. Unspoken request answered without words.

He sighs. Wriggles around. Makes a show of getting settled; digging bony elbows and shoulders into Sebastian's flesh. Makes it difficult to show him affection. Makes Sebastian suffer for the casual contact, even if Jim craves it.

“Sebastian.”

“What?”

Mumbled sleepily against his hair, and Jim smiles because he knows it is safe to do so, that it cannot be seen in the dark.

“Do you love me?”

Sebastian goes still beneath him; tense, not even daring to move, and Jim knows he has hit a nerve. He has peeled away skin with the precision of a surgeon, has bared the vital organs and gone straight in for the kill. His smile widens, and he trails his nails just hard enough to sting over Sebastian's chest, over the area above his heart.

“Don't be foolish.”

Pressing down harder. Half crescents biting into skin. Moons to accompany the constellations of his freckles.

“I am never foolish, darlin'.”

The silence stretches on and on. It is heavy, it is suffocating, like heat in the desert, and Jim thrives on it. He licks his lips, and he can practically taste Sebastian's discomfort. He wants to drink it all in, feels his heart rate speed with excitement, feels his pulse jump a little quicker. The monster beneath his human skin purrs with satisfaction, and he curls closer, nuzzles against Sebastian's neck.

“I imagine it's just awful. Is it awful? It must be awful.”

“Don't.”

“Don't? Talk about it?”

“Just leave it, Jim.”

Sebastian does not sound angry. He does not sound defensive. He sounds tired; he sounds exhausted. He sounds like someone who has had this conversation many times, and cannot bear to go through it once more, even though they have never spoken a word on the topic before.

Jim laughs. It huffs out against Sebastian's neck, a hot exhale that chills him to the bone. Jim presses a feather light kiss over the point of his pulse.

“A nightmare,” he murmurs, and then: “Good night.”


End file.
